


where i come to greet you, the paths will follow

by sobastyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Poetry, harry basically thinks louis is the prettiest thing alive, illusions of a blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobastyles/pseuds/sobastyles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“lost in your head again, poet boy?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	where i come to greet you, the paths will follow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lorrayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorrayne/gifts).



> Thanks to my lovely best friend Lo for beta-ing, whom coincidentally I wrote this for.  
> Basically I watched "Kill Your Darlings" and ended up with this. So.

harry touches his clavicle.

it’s a bony thing, encased in soft, alabaster beauty that soaks in raincloud lighting like a rippled puddle in the grass. the quiet rhythms beat against the pane like a miniature drum, begging bodies but not feet to follow. it beckons but it does not demand.

“lost in your head again, poet boy?”

his voice is beautiful. harry smiles into the curve of his palm, lips praying like hands do and yet so loud in the silence. they speak volumes, though they are not open. currently. “i’ve come to realize where my weakness comes like a passing drug, you filter into me.”

louis, is the boy’s name. harry found him when he was wandering the streets, tucked away in his jeans, his leather jacket, with a cigarette on his lips, none of which belonging to him, as he had explained. he’d stolen them from a friend back home, who was too attached to the lips of a lavender-haired beauty to care. harry didn’t care himself, either, but nodded anyway.

“don’t spout that pomp at me. it won’t work.”

how wrong he is. harry can see the glow to louis’s cheeks in the clouded shade, and half suspects that if he pressed a hand to them, they would burn. not a slow, aching burn, but one so sharp and fast he could not see it coming. he didn’t see louis coming.

“where i come to greet you,” he breathes, mouth dipping down, down, down into the hollow of his navel, “the paths will follow. a touch of light, and breath, and i cannot feel my fingertips, but you are soft like a swallow on my tongue with all the ease and flight it possesses. your body could break the touch of a thousand angels, because they could not hope to create someone such as you.”

“now you’re just flattering me.”

his voice is faint, as though he’s miles away, and harry can’t stand the distance. his hands dig deep into the meat of his thighs, pressing for purpose. they press for love, and fear, and all the things that ruin a man that once stood tall on his own two feet, ignorant and suspicious of nothing. where he was whole, louis entered, and destroyed him.

“i could only hope to do so.”

it is the last he speaks for ages.

he watches louis weave braids with the bedsheets between his fingers, the arch of his spine bending off the bed and threatening to snap. if he were to break, harry would fall. the only bridge to bear the weight of his words would crumble and he would cease to travel; a wanderer in the night, a boat lost at sea. he would be listless and lonely in the dark, as the boy is salt and musk on his tongue, and an orchestra in the air when harry tongues fervently at his tip. he is the call of a siren.

the rain drowns out the soft gasps left over when harry’s lips are painted white, and he is envious. the presence of louis is enough to turn the windmills of harry’s mind until he cannot speak in a manner that can be understood. he becomes the confines of a conscience where all thoughts run and refuse to be allowed to escape. he churns like an ocean, he batters like hurricane winds, and he has no peace. no peace at all.

it’s a whisper harry places behind louis’s ear long after he’s fallen asleep, tucked away into the safety of harry’s embrace. barely there, tinged with sorrow, he watches the clock tick forward a minute on the wall. in four hours, louis will retract his jeans, his cigarette, his leather jacket. he will retract his burning cheeks and his alabaster skin, and harry will be cold.

“my heart aches for a phantom touch, and then i reverse again.”

three hours and fifty-nine minutes.

“don’t reverse.”


End file.
